In the Beginning
by schizo-nephalim
Summary: First installment of the Kyra Singer saga, set pre-series. Every hunter has their own horror story, a tragedy that made them choose the life, and Kyra is no exception. Comfort!Dean, warnings inside
1. Chapter 1

In the Beginning

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, I don't own the Winchesters or their world, or I'd make Dean my love slave. I only own Kyra.

**Rating:** M for supernatural violence against children, death and language

**Characters:** Dean, John Winchester, Bobby Singer, Sarah Grant aka Kyra Singer (OC)

**Description:** First installment of the Kyra Singer saga, set pre-series. Every hunter has their own horror story, a tragedy that made them choose the life, and Kyra is no exception.

**A/N:** Okay, I know this gets pretty dark in some places, but that's just the extent of the disaster. This is set a few months after Sam left for Stanford, which is why he's not in the picture for this one. Please review!

The first time I saw Dean Winchester…that's a day that's been branded in my mind permanently. You see, I was just a normal person up until then—sure, I'd developed a couple of freaky abilities, but I had an apartment, a husband, and two small kids. It wasn't exactly him that changed everything, it was just the job he was working, but he's the reason I'm still alive to talk about it.

"Mrs. Grant?" I looked up when I heard my name. I'd watched them come up the stairs while I was standing outside my front door smoking. Between kids and the lingering smoke clogging up my sinuses when I sleep, I made the rule with me and my husband that we don't smoke inside.

"Yeah, that's me. Who are you?" I asked in return. The kids were asleep and my husband was hanging out with one of his friends across town, and I wasn't exactly comfortable with strangers in Tulsa coming up to me…I grew up in a small town, so I was a bit paranoid about the crime rate here.

There were two of them; I was instantly attracted to the younger of the two, while the older one bore a strong resemblance. They looked like they were father and son, and it was the older one who spoke.

"Special Agent Hetfield; this is Special Agent Ulrich," they flashed their badges as they spoke, "we'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

It was their introduction that did it; a ringing started in my head, like an old-fashioned fire alarm—the bell, not the siren—and I winced. It ended with their introductions, though—it didn't extend into the bit about the questions. They seemed to notice because the younger one—the so-called Special Agent Ulrich—spoke up.

"Are you all right?" I swallowed back the pain in my head and looked at him. I knew what that ringing meant because it wasn't the first time it had happened, but my instincts were usually good and I went with them.

"I'm fine…come on in," I told them, then put my cigarette out in the ashtray and walked back inside. They followed me in and I motioned for them to sit down. As they settled themselves on the futon, I spoke again. "Sorry if it's not that comfortable…we don't really have the money for a couch."

"It's fine, Mrs. Grant, we've had worse," the elder said, then shot his partner a look. I sat down in one of my kids' chairs and looked at them seriously.

"Who are you really?" I demanded. Ulrich looked slightly uncomfortable, but Hetfield wasn't giving anything away.

"We told you-"

"Hetfield and Ulrich, I got that," I snapped back, cutting him off. "As in Lars Ulrich and James Hetfield of Metallica. I'm not stupid, and I know when I'm being lied to. Now who are you and what do you want from me?"

Both of them looked a bit shaken at that, but the younger one was first to speak; he tried to turn on his natural charm, but I was too fed up to go for it.

"What makes you think we're lying?"

"How about you tell me what you want from me?" I countered, feeling my temper flare up.

"We just wanna ask you a few questions about your husband," the elder stated. No alarm bells sounded in my head that time; at least I wasn't worried anymore about being raped or something. I wasn't backing down, though.

"Why should I tell two fake feds anything about him? He hasn't done anything." They were both studying me intently, like I was a problem they were trying to solve.

"We're not fake feds, as you put it," the elder said—alarm bells sounded in my head again, and it hurt a lot more than before. I held my head in my hands for a few moments, holding in the scream of pain.

"Stop lying, please," I spat at them. When the pain subsided a little, I looked up at them; they were giving me a look that was concerned and cold at the same time.

"You did that outside too," the younger one said. "Would you mind explaining that?"

"You'd just think I'm nuts," I told him. They both smirked.

"We're surrounded by crazy day in and day out. Try us," the elder said. I jumped to my feet.

"You wanna know? Fine," I spat at them, then started pacing. "I have a built-in lie detector, okay? When I hear someone lie, it's like an alarm going off in my head, okay? I hear too many, I get these massive headaches. It started about two months ago, and I don't know how or why it happened. It took me a little bit to learn what it was, but I've had a lot of practice to figure it out on my own."

I stopped pacing for a second and saw the look they shared between them; it sent chills up my spine. They looked at me, and their expressions were hard.

"Have you had any strange cravings lately? Blackouts, where you can't remember anything?" I shook my head.

"No and no. Why?"

"Where were you last night?"

"I was here with the kids all night."

"What about your husband—where was he last night?" I was starting to get mad again.

"Look, I'll tell you what you wanna know if you start giving me some answers, starting with who you really are and why all this is so important," I finally told them, sitting down again. "And please, no lies…my head hurts enough as it is."

They shared another look before they asked if they could speak privately. I nodded and walked down the hall to my room. Part of me wanted to eavesdrop, but part of me was scared to. Even if I had wanted to, though, I couldn't hear them because they were whispering—even if they seemed to be arguing over what to tell me and what to leave out.

Finally they called me back in the room, and both of them seemed uneasy this time…apparently they were more used to lying than honesty. I had been sitting for several moments before the elder finally spoke.

"I'm John Winchester, this is my son, Dean," he started—they shared a look before he stated, "we're hunters."

The way he said the word made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I grew up in south Arkansas, so I knew all about normal hunting, but the way he spoke told me their field had nothing to do with what I was familiar with.

"And what exactly do you hunt?" They exchanged a look before Dean looked at me—it almost looked like he was in pain.

"Ghosts…demons…werewolves…zombies…just about every nasty thing you've ever read about or seen in a movie," he said. It wasn't as surprising as some of the things I'd heard of, and I knew they were telling the truth due to the lack of migraine-inducing ringing in my head.

"Okay, so what does my husband have to do with any of this?" Dean blinked in surprise.

"That's it?" I couldn't help but smile a little at his blatant surprise.

"What, did you expect me to freak out?"

"Well, yeah."

"Well, I got a news flash for ya—I'm not like most people. I do believe those things exist; I've believed in the supernatural for a long time. When I was seventeen, I had a demon that kept coming to me in my dreams, but it was never able to get to me. It scared the hell outta me…it went on for a month before I told my mom about it, and she gave me some kind of daily lifting crap to recite and I never saw the thing again, thank God. Hell, I believed before that."

They exchanged looks while I was talking, and I had the feeling that they found it even more interesting than I did, which said a lot.

"So what are you doing in Tulsa, and what does my husband have to do with this?" I asked, bringing the conversation back to the point.

"We think he's been infected by a werewolf." My mind immediately went to the horrible bite wound on his arm from two nights before. He'd said it was from some psycho drunk, but he never got a good look at the guy. I started feeling a little nauseous then.

"He came home two nights ago with a bite on his arm…he said it was some drunk, but it was…" I rested my head in my hands, the nausea making my stomach cramp up…this couldn't be happening to me…what was I supposed to do? I felt Dean's hand squeeze my shoulder reassuringly.

"Mrs. Grant—"

"My name's Sarah," I growled, then took a deep breath and tried to pull myself together again. Falling apart wasn't going to help anything, I kept telling myself. I hadn't worked up the nerve to look at them yet, but I had to ask. "So what should I expect when he changes? What's he gonna do?"

"What do you know about werewolves?" I shook my head…I still couldn't look at them as I remembered everything.

"Just the overly-romanticized crap you see in movies and books, and I know half of that's probably a load of shit. They crave human flesh, silver bullets kill them, once they change they're too far gone, all that stuff."

I finally got the nerve to look up at them, and the looks on their faces told me I was closer to the mark than I thought. John clenched his jaw for a moment.

"Sarah, you were actually pretty close with those parts. More specifically, they crave the human heart, and it takes a silver bullet to the heart to kill them."

"And once the first change happens, everything that made them human is gone," Dean added. I started feeling nauseous again when it clicked for me—this was about to happen to my husband. "Sarah, is there anywhere safe you and your kids could go to? A friend, or a relative?" I shook my head.

"I don't really know anyone up here, and all my family lives in Arkansas," I told them. They looked at each other for a moment, and I could tell they were trying to think of some way to get us somewhere safe.

"Then we'll just have to stay with you…he's bound to come back," John stated matter-of-factly. "I can stake out the building. Dean, you stay here with her."

Dean started to protest, but John merely walked out, ignoring whatever Dean was going to say. I just put my head in my hands again; their actions were all too clear to me. Once my husband came home, they were going to kill him…but would he still be my husband? If he didn't come home till after dark, more than likely he would have changed by then—meaning the man I loved would be gone.

A hand on my shoulder made me jump, and I looked to my right to see Dean kneeling down beside me. His eyes spoke volumes of his inner turmoil; he hated that his job was necessary, but he liked doing it—he hated to be the bearer of such horrible news to me, but he was determined to do everything he could to save me and my children. It only made my heart ache even more.

"I'm sorry," he told me. Even his voice revealed his pain. "I wish there was another way." I waved him off as he prepared to say more.

"It's not your fault," I told him, cursing myself for my voice cracking. "It's either the truth or a body bag, right?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** This chapter is what earned the rating and the warnings! Read at your own risk! And please review, it inspires me to keep going!

It was nearly midnight when it happened. Dean was showing the signs of exhaustion, but apparently he was well trained and refused to nod off, accepting my offer of coffee with a smile. As for me, my nerves refused to let me sleep or even sit down for more than twenty seconds. After his fourth cup of coffee, Dean excused himself to the bathroom, and I stayed in the kitchen as he walked to the end of the hall where my bedroom and bathroom were.

While he was gone, I got a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, and my instincts screamed at me to check on the kids. I forced myself not to run to their room halfway down the hall, then peeked through the slightly open door.

It took every ounce of willpower not to scream. My baby girl, barely a year old, was a bloody mess, and something that looked like a deformed version of my husband was over my two-year-old son, its face buried in a gaping hole in his chest. My world collapsed around me in that moment, and I knew I would never be able to banish that horrible sight from my mind.

Apparently, the thing sensed my presence and looked up. I ran back down the hall to the kitchen—I had just made it into the living room when it crashed through the wall right behind me. I didn't stop as I heard Dean yell my name, or heard the thing roar…I snatched the biggest knife out of the drawer and ran back into the living room, where Dean was ducking and dodging for his life. When I spotted his gun, I snatched it up off the table and flipped the safety off.

Rage filled me as I pulled the trigger, hitting the creature in its back, making it spin toward me in fury…it killed my children…it killed the only things that kept me going in life…I was hardly aware that I was still pulling the trigger until Dean gently took the gun out of my hands. It took me a moment to realize that I'd emptied the entire clip into the werewolf, and at least one of the bullets had found its heart because it was dead.

I jumped when the front door burst open a moment later and John appeared, gun in hand and raised to use. When he spotted the dead werewolf, he lowered his gun and gave a small nod to Dean.

"Good job, son." Dean gave a weak attempt at a smirk and shook his head.

"Wish I could take the credit, Dad. She killed it, not me." John's face revealed momentary surprise, then he studied me with an expression that I didn't care to read. It was then that I heard the sirens approaching fast, and they started talking fast about what to say to the cops when they arrived. I didn't listen; I felt empty and numb inside at what had happened.

The rest of that night was a blur; the police questioned all of us, and we all told them stories that pretty much lined up together. None of them seemed to question my lack of tears—apparently I looked as shell-shocked as I felt. When they finally gave us a card and allowed us to leave, I packed a few changes of clothes and followed them to their car.

"I'm going with you," I told them flatly. They looked at me in surprise, then shared a look with each other before Dean spoke.

"Look, Sarah—"

"It's not a debate, Dean," I said as firmly as I could. "I'm going."

He looked at his dad, and I met John's gaze. I knew if either of them could understand, he would…I had gathered enough from what little conversation I'd had with Dean to know that. Something in those eyes seemed to reflect what I felt, and I knew what was coming.

"Get in." Dean started to protest again, but John merely silenced him with a look, and they got in front as I climbed into the back seat. My apartment was near the interstate, and they immediately got onto it. We left Tulsa without stopping, and I promised myself I would never return to that God-forsaken city again.


	3. Chapter 3

"Dad, why the hell are we bringing her with us?" Dean demanded in a whisper; I must have fallen asleep in the back seat, and they apparently thought I was still sleeping.

"Because I said so, Dean," he shot back quietly. I knew Dean didn't like the idea, and I figured it was something they didn't hear very often, but he could get over it. He didn't seem ready to, though.

"I don't get it, Dad—why bother? We saved her, she's not in danger, so why bring her along?" I heard the resentment in his voice and it made me mad.

"Because I know how she feels a lot more than you do, son."

"Enlighten me."

"When your mother was killed, I wanted nothing more than to find the thing that killed her and destroy it…I remember staring at the house that night with you and Sam in my arms and thanking God that I still had you." He paused, and I heard the pain in his voice as he told my feelings to Dean, feelings that I had yet to speak to anyone. "She killed it, but that thing used to be her husband…she lost her kids in the process…she lost everyone she loved…she wants to be a hunter."

Silence reigned for a long moment; Dean seemed to be processing his father's words in silence. The only sounds I could hear were the roar of the classic car's engine and the sound of some classic rock through the speakers, the volume turned low apparently for me. I sensed from the car's motions that we were slowing down, and the car turned and finally stopped. I didn't care where we were, or where we were going, or that I was with two complete strangers.

Dean got out, and I rolled over on the backseat to where I was lying on my back. In the corner of my eye, I saw John looking at me in the rearview mirror.

"We're in Joplin, Missouri," he told me. "We're taking you to another hunter for him to teach you the basics…his name's Bobby Singer, and he's one of the best. We're just making a rest stop so we can all get a shower and some sleep."

"Fine by me," I mumbled. The numbness was overwhelming; I didn't feel how cold I was, or how badly I was shaking from my blood sugar dropping. I had no appetite, so I didn't crave food even though I needed it. The door opened again, and Dean got back in, holding a set of keys in his hand.

"Room 109," he told John. John nodded and guided the car closer to the room, and they got out, John opening the door for me and grabbing my bag as I sat up and looked around. We were at some cheap roadside motel, but I was beyond caring about the state of our accommodations. I stumbled out of the car and toward Dean, who had unlocked the door and left it open for us.

I don't know if it was because they saw how unsteady I was, or maybe I was even more pale than usual, or both, because Dean suddenly looked concerned and helped me inside to one of the beds. I heard him say something to his dad about getting me something to drink, or maybe it was something to eat…I was drifting off again. Some part of me realized I was going into shock, but I refused to acknowledge that sensible part…oblivion was more peaceful.

It only seemed like seconds later when I felt myself being pulled up into a sitting position and heard Dean speaking in a soothing voice. I was hardly aware of the bottle of juice he put in my hand, and it took a huge effort on my part to lift it up and take a sip. As I lowered the bottle again, I realized they had wrapped me in several blankets—only the arm with the bottle was free.

"Any reason you got me wrapped up like a burrito?" I asked, turning my head to look at Dean. He seemed to wince at my gaze, or possibly my words.

"You're in shock, Sarah…you're freezing and you need to get something in your system," he told me, raising the hand holding the drink to stress the point. I wasn't really thirsty, but I drank some more and realized they had given me orange juice…oh well, if it makes him feel better. I looked around the room and noticed John was absent.

"Where'd your dad go?" I focused my gaze on the front door.

"He went to get some food for all of us," Dean told me. "C'mon, stay with me till he comes back, okay?" I was too drained to smile.

"Why bother, Dean? You don't want me around anyway…you don't have to pretend and be nice to me," I told him. He immediately looked ashamed.

"You heard all that, huh?" he muttered. I nodded, or at least I think I did; I felt so dazed that it was hard for me to tell what was real and what I imagined. A horrible pressure was building up inside me—it felt like it was crushing my chest—and finally it was like a bomb went off inside me when I fully realized everything that happened the night before.

Crying was an understatement—I screamed, sobbed, and was so hysterical that I couldn't make words. If I hadn't already been sitting down, I would've collapsed on the floor…time didn't exist anymore…only the horrifying images burned into my head of my children, dead and mutilated, murdered by a creature that used to be their father, my husband. I wasn't even aware of Dean's arms around me.

I couldn't have told you how long I was like that, but Dean told me later that it was about half an hour. All I know is that after I stopped screaming and sobbing, John finally came back with several bags of food. He only took one glance at me and knew, because the tears were still pouring down. After digging in one of the bags, he grabbed a box and opened it, then brought it to me with a fork.

"Here," he said gently, placing them in my lap, "I know your appetite's shot, but you need to try to eat something. Don't worry about what you don't eat—we'll make sure it doesn't go to waste."

I looked at the food and saw he'd given me two fried eggs, several strips of bacon, hash browns, and toast. I stared at it for a few moments before I picked up a strip of bacon and nibbled on it…my stomach was so twisted with grief that it was nearly impossible to swallow it, and I picked up the juice again and washed it down before it could get stuck in my throat.

Dean finally let go of me to eat his breakfast, and silence reigned while they ate and I attempted to. I had just shoved my food away when there was a knock on the door; John and Dean exchanged a panicked look.

"Joplin Police," the voice on the other side announced. The two of them scrambled for a moment before I realized what must have happened.

"I bet it's about me," I said as I stood up shakily. John looked ready to snap, but Dean quickly whispered in his ear and he calmed down. Dean guided me over to the door and opened it, and the officer studied me carefully, his face showing concern, before looking suspiciously at Dean.

"Sir, we received a call about a disturbance from this room—there were reports of a woman screaming and crying," he stated. I nodded and felt the tears still rolling down my face.

"Yes sir, that was probably me," I stated, my voice hoarse and cracked. I didn't think I could bear to explain, but Dean sat me in a chair by the door and took a step toward the door, indicating that he wished to explain.

"Officer, I'm sorry you had to get called out here on this…you see, she just got a call from her dad telling her that her brother died in a car accident last night, and, well…" he said quietly, letting his voice trail off as the alarm bells sounded in my head again. The expression on the cop's face changed immediately to one of understanding. The lie was close enough to the truth for him to believe, and he saw my pain and grief were real.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am, and I hope you'll accept my condolences," he said to me, kneeling down to my level. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you?" I asked him. I hadn't had a cigarette since before…well, I needed one, anyway. He smiled and pulled a pack out of his pocket, and I gratefully took one from him and he lit it for me. It wasn't my preferred brand, but at least it wasn't menthol. His radio crackled to life just then, and he reported the all clear before leaving.

Both John and Dean gave a deep sigh of relief when the cop left. After a few moments, John actually laughed.

"That was some fast thinking, son…pretty good lie, too."

"It wasn't a lie," I interjected, making both of them look at me; they immediately stopped laughing. "My little brother died about four years ago in a car wreck."

Their expressions revealed their embarrassment and humiliation. I waved away their apologies before they could say them.

"Don't bother…it's not like you knew…besides, it got rid of the cop, didn't it?" I assured them, trying to sound calmer than I felt. They still looked uncomfortable, but thankfully they let it pass. After a moment of awkward silence, John walked over to my chair with a brave attempt at a comforting smile.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed," he said, gently pulling me to my feet. When his hand found mine, however, I had a horrible moment of vertigo as images flashed through my mind…images that I'd never seen anywhere before…a woman wearing a nightgown, pinned to the ceiling of a nursery over a crib…blood dripping from a red splotch on her stomach, just before flames burst to life all around her…a much younger John grabbing the baby and handing him to a small boy, ordering him to carry his brother outside as fast as he could…

I nearly fell under the weight of all the visions, and John changed his hold on me. Now that he wasn't touching my skin, I wasn't being bombarded anymore, but I couldn't shake what I had seen. When he sat me on the bed, he seemed to notice the change in my expression and his eyes narrowed slightly.

"What is it?" I swallowed hard, trying to figure out how to explain.

"I…I saw something," I started. "When you touched me…I saw Mary die."

Shock was etched on their faces; neither of them had said that name to me before, but I was certain that it was the name of John's wife and Dean's mother, just like I was convinced that I had seen her death. I could still smell the smoke and hear John's screams echoing in my ears.

"What exactly did you see?" Dean asked. I closed my eyes and shook my head, wishing I could forget what he wanted to know.

"A woman in a nightgown…she was pinned to the ceiling in a nursery, but there was nothing visible holding her up…blood dripping from her stomach…then fire…and a little boy running in, and John grabbing a baby out of the crib and telling the boy to take his brother outside as fast as he could…"

I shuddered again as something else hit me, something I hadn't processed the first time…evil…something truly evil had been there. When I opened my eyes and looked at them again, John's expression was grave, while Dean's face had the same stunned look I had seen in the little boy.

"Are you a psychic?" John demanded. I could only shrug.

"I don't know anymore," I muttered, feeling the tears burn my eyes again as I looked up at him. "Why is this happening to me?"

He looked in my eyes for a long moment before he exhaled heavily and nodded in acceptance. After a moment, he rummaged around in his bag before pulling out a bottle of water and handing it to me. I noticed Dean's eyes narrow by a fraction as John removed the top.

"Here—you need to keep your fluids up," he said gently. I nodded and took a sip, and he seemed puzzled. I had a feeling he had ulterior motives, and Dean confirmed it when he spoke up.

"Okay Dad, now we know she's not a demon…you happy now?" It now occurred to me why he'd dug that bottle out of his bag; it was full of holy water. The look on John's face told me he was nowhere near happy.

"Not just yet, Dean," he said as he pulled a knife out of the bag. "There's a few other things she could be."

I wanted to panic as he took a step toward me with the knife in his hand. Still, some part of my brain was forcing back the panic, and I tried to process the situation in terms of hunting and what he thought I might be.

"Hang on a sec…if I'm gonna be a hunter, would you at least mind explaining to me what you think I might be and exactly what you plan on doing to me?" I asked, my hands raised in surrender. This made John stop for a moment, and Dean stepped in and placed himself between us before answering me.

"If you're not a demon, some other creatures that can read a person like that are shapeshifters and revenants," he told me. "For both of them, silver is like acid, so I believe the plan was to cut you with a silver knife and see if you have any abnormal reaction." I nodded and held out my hand.

"Okay, I'll do it myself." They exchanged another surprised look, and I started to get irritated. "Look, I've got nothing to hide…I don't know why these things have been happening to me, but I'll be damned if you accuse me of being a monster and won't even let me show you myself that I'm not."

My words seemed to get through their thick skulls, and John handed over the knife. I turned my left forearm up and chose a spot halfway between my elbow and wrist, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly before pulling the blade across my skin. It was sharp and cut easily, but I had gauged my depth well because only a thin line of blood welled up. The cut barely hurt.

I looked up at them, letting my expression speak for itself instead of actually saying "I told you so". Without a word, I wiped the traces of blood off the blade with the blanket I was wrapped in and set it on the table beside the bed. John looked like he regretted the accusation now that he was eating his words; Dean, however, had a satisfied look, and I thought I knew why. Between the time we spent together before all hell broke loose and the events of this morning, he was certain that I was exactly what I seemed to be.

"One last thing," John started, "and I promise it's the last, and it won't be as bad as the knife. Salt," he pulled a container out of the bag as he spoke, "is like a supernatural acid and barrier for a lot of creatures. Just eat a little bit and then I'll be satisfied."

I held out my hand, and he poured about a spoonful of salt into my palm. I didn't want to eat all of it, but on the other hand, I wanted to get the interrogation over with. Raising my hand to my mouth, I poured the salt into my mouth and let them see it before I swallowed, making a face as I did. I quickly grabbed the juice and tried to wash the taste out, but it only seemed to make it worse.

"You know, my mom acts like salt is evil," I told them, trying to lighten the mood. "She drives me nuts…her food comes out so bland, and she expects me to cook the way she does just because it's what she likes, even though she's the only one that likes it…go figure why I'm the better cook."

That actually brought a smile out of both of them, and one by one we all laid down and went to sleep. I was the last one awake; being gentlemen, they let me have one of the beds to myself and shared the other. The images of my children's and Mary's deaths played through my head, and I couldn't shake the familiar feeling of evil from Mary's murder. It had turned into a puzzle, and I thought I knew the answer…sleep finally came from sheer exhaustion, and that was the last time in a long time that I slept without nightmares.


	4. Chapter 4

We arrived at Bobby's house the following afternoon. My first impression was that he was nice enough, but there was an underlying feeling that he was not someone you wanted to piss off. John had called him ahead of time, and he knew exactly why they had brought me to his doorstep.

The Winchesters left shortly after to find another case, which left me alone with another perfect stranger. If I hadn't been so numb with grief, it might have bothered me that I had spent the last few days with men I knew nothing about, or that I would now be living with one for the foreseeable future.

Bobby gave me the tour of his house, starting with his den. There were books everywhere, most of them extremely old. I felt myself smile slightly as I looked at some of the titles; reading was one of my passions, and Bobby's books all had to do with various supernatural entities.

After that, he showed me the kitchen, and I was surprised at all the phones lined up against the wall. Each one had a different label on it, a large piece of masking tape with a name written on it. Homeland Security, FBI, CIA, Federal Marshalls, and State Police were just some of the names I saw.

"What's all that for?" I asked, pointing to the phones. He smirked.

"When we're investigating a case, sometimes people ask to speak to a superior before they'll cooperate. Whoever's hunting gives them a number, and whatever their cover is, I can assume the identity of their superior and browbeat the dumbass wanting to play hard ball." I shook my head, trying to not laugh.

After the tour of the house was over, he started making burgers for lunch, and I sat on the counter as he did the cooking. Inwardly, I was hurting so badly I had grown numb, and I hung my head and closed my eyes.

"You wanna talk about it?" he asked after several moments of silence. Tears burned my eyes as I shook my head. "Well, if you ever do, I'm here."

"You know, John told me what happened…he said you've got the right stuff for being a hunter…you're smart, you're adaptable…you didn't panic, you didn't scream, you just did what needed to be done…"

"Look, I don't wanna talk about it right now," I burst out, hot tears starting to roll down my cheeks. I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. "Look, I've been doing some thinking, and I need to change my identity. I mean, my parents are gonna report me as a missing person if they haven't already, and the cops might find it suspicious that I ran off right after…all that."

"John was right," he said as he dug in a drawer for a spatula. "You are smart. So, any particular name or identity catch your attention?"

"Well, since I'll be staying with you for the foreseeable future, I figured it would lower suspicions with your neighbors if I was your niece," I told him. He looked at me strangely for a moment. "You're not an only child, are you?"

"I like you," he stated, pointing at me with the spatula for a moment before flipping the burgers. "And to answer the question, I'm an only child…but I didn't grow up here, so I think that'd work. Thought of a name?"

"Kyra."

"Kyra, huh? Why that name?"

"I like it…besides, Kyra Singer has a bit of a ring to it, don't you think?" He chuckled as he grabbed plates out of the cabinet and set them on the counter.

"Could be worse," he admitted, then looked at me with an expression I knew well. "If you're not hungry, I can save yours for later…John told me you haven't been sleeping, and you look dead on your feet. Go upstairs and get some rest, Kyra."

"Thanks, Uncle Bobby," I mumbled as I hopped down from the counter. He smirked, and I was halfway to the door before I paused. "You know what's funny? I actually do have an uncle named Bob."

His laughter followed me all the way up the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

Days turned to weeks; Bobby had taught me nearly everything he knew about all the guns he had, and I found to my surprise that I was a pretty decent marksman. He had also assigned for me to learn everything I possibly could on about twenty creatures—including how to identify and kill them—and exorcism rituals.

"Dean called earlier," Bobby told me one night as I was curled on the couch, reading one of his books about werewolves. "He said John wanted to know how you were coming along on your training."

I looked up at him, surprised on several levels. For one, if John had wanted to know about my training, I knew he would've called himself; for another thing, I thought Dean didn't give a rat's ass about me to bother calling.

"So what'd you tell him?" I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"I told him you're scaring the hell out of me," he said as he sat down behind his desk. "You catch on to everything so fast, it's like you were born to be a hunter, Kyra…he asked about your abilities, too, what I thought might be behind it."

"What _do_ you think is behind it?" I leaned forward in my seat, truly interested.

"Well, there have been a lot of cases reported that some people—special people—find they develop psychic abilities after they've experienced some kind of trauma. I'd say you fit into that category."

"Not exactly," I replied. "That built-in lie detector first started going off a few months before the big showdown…how did that happen?"

"Don't know…did you ever have any psychic tendencies when you were a kid? Weird vibes that turned out to be right, déjà vu, that kind of thing?"

"Actually, yeah…I used to have déjà vu all the time. The only thing that really comes to mind is when I was in the fifth grade…I don't remember if I was dreaming or just daydreaming, but I saw myself in class and the teacher told us we were about to take a test, and the guy in front of me—Richard Barnes—turned around and asked me for a pencil. I didn't think much of it, but a day or two later it happened just like I saw it…as I got older, it just faded away. I haven't seen anything in years…but what does that mean?"

He stayed silent, obviously thinking hard. I knew he wouldn't lie to me about this; he knew how important it was to me to find out why I was suddenly turning into a catch-all for memories from other people. It was starting to get to where I picked up things from objects I touched, too—I saw that object's history in a millisecond.

"Kyra, it seems to me you've always had the potential for this…something must have triggered your abilities to turn your bullshit meter on, then when you lost your family, the trauma set off everything else," he said quietly.

"Maybe—can't imagine what would've triggered it to begin with, though," I replied honestly. The lack of migraine-inducing ringing in my head told me he was telling the truth, and I really couldn't think of anything that could have started the whole thing in the first place. The grief was still too fresh to examine that time more closely—I had already confided to Bobby my side of what had happened, and _that_ breakdown wasn't one I cared to repeat ever again.

"Well, in any case, we need to pack up in the morning," he stated, making me look up at him again. "Three people murdered in their homes in Wichita in the last two weeks—no signs of forced entry, bodies ripped to shreds."

"You really think I'm ready to work a job?" I asked, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

"Maybe not ready to work one alone yet, but you'll never get ready unless you get some experience under your belt."

His words made me truly smile for the first time in weeks. Sure, I'd been through hell…sure, I'd been dealt a pretty shitty hand…but Uncle Bobby thought I was ready to start hitting the road, even if it was under supervision, and I was chomping at the bit to begin. My pain was my drive, the force that kept me going—and if I could save even one mother from feeling that pain, the curse that my life had become would be worth it.

The End


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